A New Version of Hell
by water4willows
Summary: After Dean says yes, Michael tortures him in one dark corner of his mind. A pinch-hitter fic written for the Summer 2018 Whump Exchange over on Tumblr.


He's awake for most of it; he never expected that. Dean and his brother haven't always been able to save every possessed person they've come across over the years, but the ones they have been able to exorcise always mention being awake for at least some of it. Even so, he never expected to be shoved down into one dark corner of his own mind, and he certainly never expected to be able to feel, to hurt, or to bleed.

Dean is pretty sure that this part of his mind is the place where he pushed all of his old memories of hell. And Michael must have access to those memories, because this place reminds him so much of that time in his life, he often has to convince himself that this is all just an illusion. Lucky for him his prison reminds him of that fact fairly often. The walls change, the chains-or ropes, depending on Michael's mood - securing him to the chair in the middle of the room rattle even when he's not moving, and the bars on his cell blink in and out of existence. Or at least they did. It seems the longer Michael manages to keep him in this place, the more solid it all becomes.

Dean has never been possessed before. In all their years of hunting the supernatural, this is one particular part of the job he's thankfully never had to experience for himself. Monsters have tried in the past for sure, and there were those freaky assed Khan bugs once, but he's never actually been full on, meatsuit carjacked, wheel wrestled from his hands, no hope of getting out, possessed.

In the beginning, he was actually able to regain control from Michael every once in a while, and he always tried to find a way to reach Sammy. But that angelic bastard was smart in those first few days. He either kept them in places that were so remote he couldn't even locate a phone, or so busy that madmen running up to people begging them for the love of god and all that was holy call Sam Winchester and tell him to come and get his goddamn brother, went generally ignored. He'd even caught the attention of a passing police officer a time or two. How Michael was able to get them out of situations like that Dean will never know, because just when he thought he was actually going to get someone to listen to him, to believe him, he always got yanked back to this place, dragged kicking and screaming back into this place where everything reminds him of hell.

It's all the same here: the far-off screams, the smells, the fires, the pain. Only this time there is no one offering him a chance for respite. After two weeks of torture, he's ready for Alistair to come into his cell and offer him a choice, because he's pretty damn sure he'd take it again, and that thought troubles him. He hasn't changed. As much as he likes to tell himself he has, he's still that same selfish bastard who would rather torture some other poor bastard than stay chained to this chair for eternity.

Dean pulls against his restraints at the thought and the chains rattle, their metallic clang echoing off the walls of his prison. The chains Michael conjured up are rusty and dig into his flesh constantly. It's a non-stop stream of agony and if this place were real, he imagines they might have sawed through his skin down to the very bone ages ago. As it is, they just sting and bleed every time he pulls against them.

"Dean, Dean, Dean," a snide voice coos at him from the darkness and Dean freezes. "Why do you struggle? You know you can't avoid this."

Michael appears in the doorway to his cell, strutting into the room like he owns the friggin' place and fingering a few of the rusty torture implements set up on a table near the door. On the wall the torches sputter and almost go out as the angel passes them. He's always gagged, so Dean sets his jaw around the filthy cloth in his mouth and levels a murderous glare at Michael, but he lets in just the slightest twinge of fear. The angel thinks Dean is afraid of him, and he usually lets him believe it, maybe even fanning the fire a bit, like right now. If there's one thing he's learned over the years hunting monsters, it's that an overconfident douchebag is more likely to make mistakes than a cautious one. And if Dean ever plans on escaping this place again, he's got to play his cards right. He's got to tap his inner Sammy and be smart about this, though he has no idea how he's going to get himself out of this one on his own.

As much as he hates to admit it, after weeks trapped in this fetid corner of his mind, his only chance of escaping might lie with his brother and Cas. They're going to have to figure out a way to expel Michael and while he has no doubts that the two of them will eventually succeed, he doesn't know how much longer he can last in here, or what will come out again once he's finally released. He hasn't forgotten what he was like when he escaped hell the last time.

Dean's mind wanders a lot in this place. To escape the pain, he makes plans in his head of what he'll do when he's free, the pain he'll inflict on Michael should he ever get the chance to return the favor and get the angel into the dungeons below the Men of Letters bunker. The places Dean goes aren't necessarily pleasant, but at least they're an escape from the pain. Michael must sense that he's drifted again because before Dean even knows what's happening, a rusty, serrated blade is plunged into the flesh of this thigh.

Dean screams. It's muffled behind the gag, but there's no mistaking it.

His vision grays out as pain so imaginable sweeps over him, it dulls every other sense he has except for his pain receptors. He tries to move his arms to cup them over the protruding blade, but his arms meet only the solid resistance of his chains. Involuntary tears squeeze from the sides of his eyes as he desperately tries to breathe through the agony.

"Stop fighting me," Michael spits, wrapping a bony hand around the blade's hilt and giving it a vicious tug.

He leaves the blade in place, just sticking out from Dean's leg like it's supposed to be there as he walks back over to the table. Dean watches him go through the haze of red that has taken over his vision. He is trying so hard not to whimper, but he can feel the mutinous noises trying to claw their way out from the back of his throat. He can't give the angel the satisfaction, won't let him break him down or get him to beg, which is what he's pretty sure this is all about. If Dean is focused on pain then he can't conserve his energy and use it to claw back into control again. It took so much out of him the last time and yet he can still remember what it felt like to be back in control of his own body, can still smell the rain as it fell and feel the drops of it soak into his shoulders. He grabs onto that feeling because it's hope, a hope that maybe he's not quite as subdued as Michael would like him to believe.

Michael returns with another blade and crouches beside Dean's uninjured leg. He can feel sweat rolling down his face from the struggle to control the pain. The salty moisture stings when it finally ends up in his eyes but that doesn't stop him from shooting daggers at Michael from over his gag. The angel grins at the continued defiance, hovering the blade over Dean's other thigh with a twinkle in his eye.

"How about another deal, Dean?" The angel suggests as Dean stares incredulously up at the angel. Another deal? What does Michael think he is, stupid? "You stop fighting me and tell me what I want to know and then I don't stab you with this one, too." The blade glints dully in the weak light. It's more rust than metal anymore. For the past few days Michael has been interrogating him on stupid things like how ATMs work. Dean has told him the wrong information every time but if the angel is having a difficult time out there, he doesn't let it show in here. He just returns day after day to torture Dean for more information. If Dean didn't have a gag in his mouth, he would spit at the angel's feet.

Without warning the second blade is buried in Dean's flesh up to the hilt and this time he blacks out a little when the torment assaults him. How that one is possible is anyone's guess. Nothing makes sense in this place anyway. THe only thing he's sure of is that his cell is becoming more solid and he's running out of time.

Dean throws his head back and bellows around his gag. If he can't punch something, at least he still has his voice and he releases a string of curse words so vulgar it would have made even the saltiest of bar patrons in the most run-down of dives blush. He can see Michael enjoying his reaction immensely through his watering eyes, but he ignores him. He pulls in oxygen, trying to inflate his air-starved lungs but it's no use. Michael uses his momentary incapacitation to step forward, rip the gag from Dean's mouth and grip his chin with such force, he's going to leave bruises. "Tell me what I want to know."

He's not sure where he pulls it from, but Dean actually manages to sneer. "Go to hell."

Michael releases his chin in disgust, backing up a few steps and wrapping his hands around both the blades in Dean's legs. He twists them ever so slightly and all the bravado Dean was able to conjure before drains away in an instant. This time he lets his head fall forward when he tries to control the inhuman noises issuing from his throat.

"You think I need you to make it out there? You think I come in here every single day to try and get information out of you, Dean?" He yanks the blades forward and Dean screams again. Its pain unlike any he's ever experienced, and he could hold a friggin degree in agony after the life he's led. It's relentless and sharp and it stabs into him with every single beat of his heart. "Because I don't. I'm only doing this because I can, Dean."

Dean pulls in a few ragged lungfuls of air and forces himself to lift his head and meet the angel's eyes. "Then why do it? You got what you want. Why the fuck are you wasting your time tormenting me"

"Because the longer I keep you in here, the weaker you get," Michael explains with a shrug. "Because I won, Dean. I defeated a Winchester, which, as I understand it, is a particularly difficult task in this world. And what better way to celebrate my victory than by tearing you apart…"

Michael leans in closer, encircling the hilt of one of the knives with his hand again. He pulls upward viciously and without warning and Dean is helpless against the screams that the pain rips from his throat.

"One bloody piece," Michael continues, his face mere inches from Dean's now. If he were in his right mind and not chained to a chair with two knives sticking out of his fucking legs he might have tried to headbutt the angelic prick.

"At a time."

Michael takes his time with the last blade, removing it slowly and deliberately letting the serrated edge inflict as much damage as possible as its pulled from his leg. It takes everything in Dean not to flicker out of existence right then and there. But he can't give up. Not yet. He's got to give Sam and Cas a chance to rescue him.

Michael lets the bloody blades clatter to the floor but the torture isn't going to end there. He digs the pads of his thumbs into Dean's open wounds, sneering at the sounds Dean makes. The pain is unimaginable and his mind does the only thing available to it: it fractures, retreats into thoughts of Sammy and of Cas, of his mother and of Bobby and one quiet, unrelenting hope that somewhere out there in that world he used to call his own, they're all together trying to figure out a way to save him from this, from this new version of hell. He pulls those thoughts in close and doesn't let them go even as the blades return and Michael begins to laugh at him from above.

Fin.


End file.
